


more than you could ever know

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 7k of absolute plotlessness, Christmas, Drunken Love Confessions, Happy Ending, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Ms Hudson ships them, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt: Lights, Sad Idiots In Love, Sad violin playing, TFP?, This is clearly not a ficlet, What TFP?, decorations, my hand slipped, parentlock if you squint, the author still knows nothing about toddlers, there's just too much to unpack there guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22003018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: Suddenly, Sherlock’s hand curls around his bicep. Warm and grounding, over the wool of his jumper. He fixes him with his impossible, multi-coloured gaze, and asks, “Are you happy?”Is he-Sherlock cocks his head, and his flushed cheeks glow in the darkness. (Sherlock always looks unfairly pretty when he’s drunk. Or maybe it’s the entire picture; the disheveled curls, the flushed face, how loose-lipped he becomes.) They should get back downstairs, where they’re not so close, where John can think past how familiar Sherlock smells- expensive shampoo, cologne, chemicals, cigarette smoke
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 67
Kudos: 377
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	more than you could ever know

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of listening to All I Want for Christmas on repeat.
> 
> Leave a review if you like it!

Sherlock almost trips, curses. He’s getting old, isn’t he. Losing his sense of balance. Ah. There. Perfect.

Well, sort of.

He hops off the sofa to evaluate his handiwork. He’s never been much for decorations. The last time they’d had Christmas at 221B, Ms Hudson and John had fussed over the tangled fairly lights, the rusty bells. Made confused little circles around the Christmas tree, covered in tinsel, wondering where to put what. Sherlock had watched, amused, from the kitchen.

He hadn’t really _entertained_ before, but it had been nice. Christmas at Sherlock and John’s, that’s what everyone must have referred to it as. John had done most of the hosting, though, admittedly. Bought the wine. Takeout. (Remembered to order Sherlock’s favourite.) He’d brought over a woman as well, but Sherlock’s fairly certain he’d offended her enough that she'd left midway. He can’t remember. John’s girlfriends melted into a sort of blur after a while.

And this year.

Well.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of Christmas, this year. He hadn’t been interested. He’d been sure John wouldn’t have been interested either. But there was Rosie to consider. Little children liked Christmas. Christmas was _for_ little children, he thought. And he _had_ got her a present, and everything. So had his parents, even though he’d vehemently opposed this. (He didn’t want John to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t want to upset mummy, either.)

He’d considered getting something for John, too. Clutching the new electric toaster in his hand (long overdue present for Mrs Hudson, he’d nicked her old one for an experiment a month ago) he’d stood in the aisle at Tesco’s, and wondered. There were lots of things he could have gotten for him.

A new jumper. Cashmere. Dark blue. It’d match the colour of his eyes.

A new watch. John’s old one was broken.

That crime series he’d been reading- he’d been planning on buying the next installment for a while.

He’d decided against it.

Sherlock was unsure of where they stood, anyway. Was it appropriate? What if John took it the wrong way?

What if John hadn’t got him anything (likely) and felt upset and embarrassed when he was presented with something from Sherlock?  
  


Things were delicate enough. Sherlock didn’t need to make it worse. He was so very good at making things worse.

It was better now, yes- slightly. They were speaking to each other. They went on cases. John came by sometimes with Rosie.

That was good, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t he be happy?

At least the lights looked nice. Maybe a bit lopsided. But the flat was covered in them, blinking and twinkling and the tree didn’t look bad, either. Although the credit for that should clearly go to Mrs Hudson.

(She’d been very good at the decorating, except when she’s decided to fix a sprig of mistletoe to the ceiling, which Sherlock had ripped off when she wasn’t looking. She’d noticed though, of course she had, but hadn’t said anything.

What could she say, anyway? They both know _why_ Sherlock couldn’t stand the sight of that in his flat, didn’t they.)

Carefully, Sherlock takes Rosie’s wrapped gift from the coffee table and places it under the tree. 

He’s lucky that John had accepted his invitation if he can call it that. He’d half-expected him to politely decline. Maybe he’d attend the do at Scotland Yard instead? No. John would find that even less tolerable than Christmas at Sherlock’s.

***

_“Christmas is in a few days,” John comments. He takes a sip from the cup of tea Sherlock had made. They’d both been quiet for the past quarter of an hour, the adrenaline from the case long since faded. Sherlock looks up at him, over the rim of his own cup. Sensing a proper conversation, he puts his cup down._

_“Four days, to be precise.”_

_John’s lip twitched. “What are you doing?”_

_“Drinking tea.”_

_“No, you git. I mean, on Christmas.”_

_“Oh.” Sherlock moved his shoulders in an odd sort of shrug. He hadn’t really thought about it. In his head, he’d imagined it would be like last year. Miserable and lonely. John hadn’t been speaking to him, then. So he’d assumed he’d be here, in Baker Street. Maybe Ms Hudson would pop in for a visit: mildly desirable. Maybe his luck would be worse and Mycroft would arrive to impose himself. “Not quite sure.”  
  
_

_“Ah.”_

_Silence, again. It’s hateful. Sherlock hates these silences, most of all. It’s not as though he and John would fill them with meaningless chatter, before. They used to be able to share companionable silences all the time; John reading some terrible drivel, Sherlock at the dining table, conducting an experiment, but this- this is horrible. This is silence born of something much worse._

_“You could bring Rosie here,” he says, quickly. “If you’re amenable, that is. And you. You should come too. Obviously. Ms Hudson could bake a cake. Children like that sort of thing, don’t they?”_

_John blinks at him. Sherlock wants to hit himself in the face._

_“Unless you have plans. You probably do. Forget I asked.”_

_“I don’t have plans.”_

_Oh._

_Sherlock licks his lips, waiting for John to continue._ I don’t have plans, but I don’t want to be here, either.

~~(Anyone but you)~~

_“Sounds…good. Yeah. Okay. We’ll come. You sure you won’t be running off to solve any crimes?”_

Hmm. Funny. As if Sherlock would prefer to be out there, hunched over a decapitated body instead of here, with John. Well, he’d prefer to be hunched over the decapitated body _with_ John, (best case scenario, of course) but considering John wouldn’t want to expose Rosie to corpses so soon, and he can’t keep foisting the toddler on Ms Hudson (although Ms Hudson adores Rosie, she wouldn’t refuse, would she, and-)

“ _I look forward to it.”_

 _Sherlock feels it spreading across his face, that smile. That ridiculous, stupid,_ I-am-so-hopelessly-devoted-to-you- _smile, and he wishes he could hide it. He wishes it wasn’t so plain on his face, this seemingly endless affection for John. Unless, of course, John doesn’t notice it, which is probable. John has been oblivious of so many things, over the years. But that could be because Sherlock is such a brilliant actor._

I want you to be here for every single Christmas, _he thinks._

~~I don’t want you to leave.~~

(So many lonely Christmases, Sherlock has deleted most of them. Until John. And then, of course, lonelier ones, worse because he _knew_ what it was like to have him,to be close to John and scoff at his stupid festive jumpers.)

He puts the star down on the coffee table. Rosie would want to put it on top of the tree.

***

John stands in front of the door, Rosie’s little, mitten-covered hand clasped in his.

Violin music wafts out from underneath the door. John hasn’t heard Sherlock play in a while. The melody is familiar. Is that-

_Auld Lang Syne._

Odd, that Christmas was years ago and John still remembers every detail of it. Sherlock was despairingly rude and offensive to their guests (John hadn’t been surprised, really), moping about The Woman and John had been awfully jealous (he can admit that to himself now, in the dimly lit landing) and he hadn’t really cared much about the fact that he’d been dumped. On Christmas.

Sherlock won’t be able to hear the bell- he barely pays attention to his surroundings when he’s playing music. Warm evenings in 221B, the fire crackling and Sherlock standing in front of the window, violin tucked under his chin, bow moving dexterously across the strings, pale fingers coaxing music from the instrument. John loved those evenings, loved watching Sherlock sway to his own rhythm without even realising.

He opens the door.

The music stops, immediately. Sherlock turns around from his regular position in front of the window, a slip of sheet music falls to the floor.

“John.”

And then; a smile. It breaks across his face, and his eyes widen at the sight of them. He shouldn’t be able to incite so much happiness in Sherlock, it makes something hot and unforgiving unfurl in his gut. Sherlock still looks at him like that. After…everything.

John smiles back. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Later,” Sherlock promises, and before he can put his violin back in his case, Rosie rips herself away from John’s side and runs to Sherlock with a delighted little screech.

“Lock!”

“Watson,” Sherlock greets her, indulgently picking her up and setting her against his chest. John closes the door behind him, watching silently as Sherlock presses a kiss to the top of her head, listens patiently as she babbles some nonsense at him.

Sherlock is unerringly devoted to Rosie, and John doesn’t know what to make of it.

“A very astute observation,” Sherlock assures her, and Rosie, pleased with this conclusion, grabs his nose affectionately.

Suddenly John notices the rest of the flat; the Christmas tree in the corner, next to Sherlock’s violin stand, covered in mismatched ornaments and tinsel. The fairy lights sparkling at him from all directions, the skull grinning at him from underneath its fur-trimmed Santa hat.

All the breath is kicked out of his chest. He’d been expecting a festive wreath over the door, at best. Maybe a few candles. Not this. Not this burst of light and colour.

“You decorated,” he says, his voice soft.

Sherlock shrugs, trying and failing to look unaffected. “Ms Hudson helped.”

John thinks of Sherlock climbing around the flat, fixing the lights and tinsel everywhere, tidying up. Trying to get a bit of holiday cheer into the flat, because last year this flat must have looked cold and dark and Sherlock had been _alone-_

“It’s great. It’s lovely. The flat looks-” _like home._ “Really great,” he finishes lamely. “Do you like the lights, Rosie?” John walks over to them brushes his hand over Rosie’s curls.

“Lights!” she repeats, proudly, clapping her hands. And then, in a clear show of affection, pulls Sherlock’s cheek.

“Quite a grip.” Sherlock gently disentangles her chubby fingers from his face. “Always knew she would be advanced for her age.”

“You think everything she does is advanced for her age,” John points out, hanging up his coat.

“She’s a clever girl.” As if to emphasise this, Rosie grabs an enormous clump of Sherlock’s hair and pulls excitedly.

“Sher, _presents_?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t be Christmas without presents, would it?” He bends and places her on her feet, pointing to the Christmas tree. “Have at it.” Rosie screams excitedly and runs towards the tree, almost falling. “But remember, Watson,” he calls after her, “Presents come from me and your father. Not a fat bald man who breaks into your house.”

John chuckles to himself, watching as Rosie gleefully tears the carefully wrapped presents under the tree. He looks at Sherlock, who has a soft, fond expression on his face. He looks nice, John thinks. And then he tells himself to think about something else.

“You didn’t have to get her anything, you know.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looks up at him, frowning. “But it’s Christmas. Isn’t that…” he trails off, looking uncertain. He blinks. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”  
  


John curses himself. _Nice going, Watson._

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I just meant you didn’t have to-“

“Da-da, bee!” Rosie holds up an enormous stuffed toy shaped like a bee, waves it at him. Bright yellow with black stripes and a pair of wings. John stops talking, and looks at her, happily waving her new toy about. That Sherlock got her. Sherlock got her a _stuffed toy._

“Bees are fascinating creatures,” Sherlock explains. He looks…nervous. Why? _Probably because he thinks you didn’t want him to get Rosie a gift, you idiot._ “I thought if I could get her interested, she’d like to learn about them.”

John doesn’t know what to say, so he claps Sherlock on the shoulder awkwardly. “It’s great. She loves it, clearly.”

Sherlock’s mouth pulls upwards in some approximation of a smile. “Better than Mycroft’s present anyway.”

“ _Mycroft_ got her a gift?”

On cue, Rosie rips apart some more packaging to reveal a book. “Dada…” she looks at him for an explanation, pointing at the book in distress.

“An appropriate reaction to presents from your uncle Mycroft,” Sherlock concedes. “Although a working knowledge of anatomy is always desirable, Watson.”

Rosie looks as though she finds the veracity of Sherlock’s claim dubious, and pushes Mycroft’s book away and instead reaches for another lumpy looking package. That must be from Ms Hudson.

“Dress,” Sherlock murmurs. “Obviously. And she’ll force dozens of biscuits on you before you leave.”

John nods, grinning. He hadn’t got Sherlock anything. He suddenly wishes he had. He’s always been terrible at presents. And Sherlock was a difficult person to shop for. He’d considered it, this year, when he’d been busy buying Rosie and Ms Hudson’s presents. His eyes had caught a gorgeous-looking scarf, deep maroon. He couldn’t resist thinking of it wrapped around Sherlock’s slender neck. It would have looked lovely against his pale skin. He’d almost bought it.

Almost.

Damn it, he wishes he’d gotten it.

“No more presents,” Rosie says sadly, surrounded by the remnants of wrapping paper.

“We’ll get you some more,” Sherlock promises.

“You’re spoiling her.”

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise. “It’s Christmas.” And then, “Watson, help me put the star on top of the tree.”

 _Yes,_ John thinks, looking at the glittering lights, at Sherlock picking Rosie up and lifting her to the top of the tree so that she can affix the star on top. _It is._

***

Sherlock plays for Rosie- _Jingle Bells_ and _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ and _Frosty the Snowman._ She bounces on John’s lap and calls out meaningless babble at Sherlock, lips spread wide in a toothy grin.

“Oh, Sherlock, play something _modern,_ ” Ms. Hudson demands. Two bright spots of colour stand out on her cheeks. She doesn’t even notice John taking the glass of sherry from her hands. He gives Sherlock an amused smirk, and the latter rolls his eyes in response before placing his bow delicately across the strings.

“Modern,” he mutters. “I already played you _Last Christmas._ ” He looks ashamed of this.

 _He’s adorable,_ John thinks.

And then, _damn it._

“Sherlock,” Ms Hudson persists, and Sherlock takes a long-suffering sigh and begins to play.

It takes John a few seconds to recognise the tune, as tipsy as he is. A startled laugh breaks out of his mouth. “Oh my god, are you seriously-“

“What? She asked for something modern.” He’s blushing. _Blushing._ John wants to rip the violin out of his hands, and-

_Get a grip, Watson._

“All I want for christm-a-a-as,” Ms Hudson sings along with the jaunty music. “Is y-ouu-“

She taps her hand on her knee along with the rhythm, clearly enjoying herself. Sherlock’s expression is a mix between irritated and fond, which is exactly how he looks at Mrs Hudson all the time. And John. Sometimes. He thinks. Sherlock turns his back to them, and John watches the delicate line of his shoulders move as he drags his bow across the strings, the barest swing in his hips. He never notices. If he was aware of it, he’d stop. (He’d get embarrassed, and Sherlock does that so easily, always quick to assume he’s being made fun of.) So John never says anything.

John leans back against his armchair, comfortable, and oddly content. The wine must be helping because he doesn’t remember feeling like this with Sherlock in a while. He’d always been so-

_~~Angry.~~ _

_~~Upset.~~ _

_~~Guilty.~~ _

Really quite unpleasant, if he was honest.

He watches Sherlock play, his own hand cupped around Rosie’s head, stroking her curls. She’s looking at Sherlock, trying to stay awake, but failing. Unsurprising, it is a little past her bedtime.

“There,” Sherlock finally announces, turning around with a flourish. Ms Hudson gives him an over-enthusiastic round of applause. John raises his glass. “Are you happy? Or should I play _Santa Baby_?”

“Could you?” Ms Hudson looks hopeful.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re a mean one, Mr Grinch,” John jokes. Sherlock frowns at him.

“What?”

“Oh come on. You can play Mariah Carey and Santa Baby but you’ve never seen _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_?”

Sherlock looks unimpressed. “No. It sounds uninteresting.” He puts his violin down on the coffee table. “I’m done taking requests. Unless you lot want to hear some _proper_ music. Look, it’s even put Watson to sleep.”

John looks down and sure enough, Rosie is peacefully slumbering on his chest, her tiny pink mouth parted and her fists curled up lightly against her chest. “Well.”

This should be his cue to leave, shouldn’t it? It’s late. Rosie needs to sleep, and Sherlock- well, he can’t impose on him any longer, can he?

“Oh, give her to me, John, I could take for the night,” Ms. Hudson holds out her arms.

John frowns. “Why would you need to take her for the night?”

She puts down her arms. “Oh. I thought-”

“She can sleep for a while in your room,” Sherlock suggests, quickly. “Don’t wake her up.” John turns to look at him, thankful for the interference. He suspects he knows exactly why Mrs Hudson would offer such a thing, and he doesn’t want to think about it.

“She’ll sleep for a while.”

An hour or so, at least, before she inevitably wakes up. Rosie’s a fitful sleeper. John looks at the time, it’s not even midnight. Sherlock looks oddly apprehensive, as though he’s afraid of John taking his offer the wrong way. Christ, why would he? He doesn’t want to leave. How could he leave, when Sherlock is here, and he looks like… _that,_ with his navy blue shirt, and the _lights,_ and. And.

“Well, you boys sort it out,” Ms. Hudson says, loudly, getting up from the sofa. “John, dear. It was so lovely to have you. You should come more often.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson.”

She smiles warmly at him, presses a kiss against his cheek. And then on top of Rosie’s head. She doesn’t stir.

“Don’t fall down the stairs, Hudders,” Sherlock calls after her.

Ms. Hudson says something appropriately rude in response before shutting the door as she leaves. The flat is suddenly much quieter, devoid of Ms. Hudson’s chattering.

Sherlock leans back in his armchair with an easy smile. “Brilliant. No more requests for _Jingle Bell Rock.”_ His eyes flutter closed and he looks...comfortable. All loose-limbed and mellow and John wants to touch him, wants to brush back some of the curls that are tumbling over his forehead, wants to straighten that collar.

Sherlock raises the wine glass to his lips and drains the rest of it. John watches, feeling a little dizzy at the movement of his throat. His blood moves sluggishly in his veins. It’s just the two of them, and it reminds him vaguely of his stag night.

Rosie stirs a little in her sleep, making a small, sleepy noise and John blinks, snapping out of it. He looks down at her. “Shit. I should- I should put her to bed.”

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly snap open, and he leaps out of his armchair. “No,” he says, resolutely. “Stay. I’ll do it. Here.”

He covers the distance between them and holds out his arms. “I’ll do it,” he says again.

“You’ve never put her to sleep,” John points out, craning his neck to look at him. Sherlock’s shirt is open at the collar, and the exposed skin is flushed pink from the wine.

“She’s already asleep, John,” Sherlock gives him a look. “Give her to me. Sit. Have some more wine. Or whiskey. There’s some in the kitchen.”  
  


“Will you be able to make it up the stairs?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs and bends down to scoop Rosie up from his chest. John gets a sudden whiff of his cologne. He resists the urge to breathe in deeply. Does Sherlock really have to come so close-

Sherlock settles Rosie against himself, jiggling her a bit so she fits there perfectly. In her sleep she grabs a fistful of his shirt, drooling a bit over him. “Charming,” Sherlock murmurs, before turning around towards the stairs.

John watches him go with a tightness in his chest that refuses to dissipate. He can’t really explain it away, either.

He reaches for the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table and drinks whatever’s left. Sherlock really went all out, didn’t he? He even remembered John’s favourite brand of whiskey. He’s always wondered about that, actually. Sherlock, who was so adamant about keeping “important” things in his head, he kept things like that. John’s birthday. His middle name. The dog he’d had as a child.

Sherlock thinks those things are important, for some reason.

Suddenly Rosie’s cry pierces through the flat. 

John stands up on instinct. _Shit._ Rosie is notoriously difficult to lull back to sleep once she’s awake. John feels a little guilty because, well, she’s awake, and there won’t be any point staying here for any longer, will there. ( _Christ,_ he’s a father, he shouldn’t be thinking like this.) Should he go-? Obviously, he can’t expect Sherlock to-

Halfway up the stairs, the crying ceases. John lets go of a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and decides to check on them anyway. He won’t say anything, because he doesn’t want Sherlock to think that John doesn’t trust him. There’s always been something unbearably sweet about Sherlock with Rosie, he is patient with her in a way that he is never with other people, and of course, he _would be,_ because Rosie is a child, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?

How else could John explain the complete lack of irritation on Sherlock’s part when he’d been showing Rosie his collection of ash, and she’d (predictably) blown on it and scattered all of it, and Sherlock had just laughed lightly to himself and told Rosie that he might make a scientist of her yet.

He reaches the landing, cracks open the door a bit, just to see Sherlock standing with her beside John’s bed, and he thinks he’s about to lay her down there, except there’s something else, besides the bed, that catches his eye.

It’s a cot. Somewhere between a cot and a cradle, actually. It looks custom-built. Smooth, polished wood. Fluffy blankets, pillows. John can feel his chest tighten as Sherlock slowly sways Rosie back to sleep and carefully lays her down inside the cot.

When he turns around and catches sight of John at the door, he stills. Something flashes across his face, something John can’t read. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his finger to his lips as he moves across the floor, trying not to make any noise. Rosie doesn’t stir.

This is. This is almost too much. Sherlock had gone through all of this effort, for _him?_ For Rosie? Sherlock, who never hoovered the flat for a day in his life when John lived here. Kept sheep entrails in the bathtub just to spite John when he was feeling stroppy. Sherlock, who used to steal his jumpers without asking him and set them on fire for some experiment.

Although, Sherlock hasn’t done things like that in a while. No, Sherlock has been… _different._ Less sharp-edged, less volatile, less reckless. Accommodating and considerate and _kind,_ and John doesn’t want to be cruel and think, _he’s not like that._ Because Sherlock _is._ Sherlock has always been like this, and John was always too blind to notice it. Sherlock has always been giving in ways that _no one_ seemed to realise, and John feels sick with himself, because wasn’t _he_ supposed to realise? He’d always felt a warm sort of pride, before, being the person who acted as a buffer between Sherlock and the rest of the world.

Smoothening the rough edges, translating Sherlock-speak for everyone else, explaining actions that seemed cold and indifferent to other people when John understood them _perfectly._

“I know it’s…odd,” Sherlock says quietly, finally reaching him, and closing the door behind himself, leaving it ajar. He fiddles with his shirt collar. “I simply thought that if she had somewhere comfortable to sleep here, you wouldn’t have to worry about leaving. You could come here more often.”

John clears his throat. “When did you-how-“

“It’s just a cot, John. Nothing special. I thought it would be convenient for both of you. Have I…miscalculated?”

John’s mouth falls open a little. _Miscalculated?_ “No! No. Of course not. I just, I’m surprised, is all. Where did you get it, anyway?”

Sherlock sighs, looking relieved. “It’s mine, actually.”

John stares at him. “Yours.”  
  


“Yes. I had it as a child. My father fixed it up, Mycroft had it delivered. It seemed like a good idea.”  
  


John peers through the bit of room he can see through the door, catching barely a glimpse of the cot. Rosie is fast asleep. He can almost see it- a pale, curly-haired child peeking through the bars, chubby fists wrapped around them, curious eyes darting everywhere, wondering how to get out of it.

“You wouldn’t have to wake her up if she fell asleep. She could sleep here. And you could,” Sherlock pauses. He clears his throat and looks down at his feet, scratching the back of his neck- a nervous gesture that John has never seen. “You could stay here, sometimes. When you’re too tired to go home. After a case. Should the need ever arise.”

“Yeah,” John breathes, without even thinking. “Yeah. Okay. That’s fine.”

He didn’t think he’d be welcome here, after everything. Except Sherlock never made him feel that way. Sherlock never did anything differently, John’s armchair, his bed, everything was exactly as he’d left it. And maybe Sherlock had been thinking, this entire time, that John hadn’t wanted to stay here because he was still _angry._ It wouldn’t be appropriate to tell him the truth, would it- that he couldn’t bear to sleep here, knowing that Sherlock was just downstairs- in his bed, warm and soft and pliant and John couldn’t _do_ anything about it.

It’s not as though he hadn’t thought of it- frequently- since he’d moved out. There had been quiet domesticity, here. Sherlock and John had somehow built their lives around each other, and it had never been perfect. But it had been _something._ Sherlock would inevitably leave bits of shaving cream on the sink, and there were acid stains on the dining table and the fridge only had food when John bought some- but, still. John missed it, even now, _more_ than ever because he was here, but he wasn’t, not really. He hadn’t been for a long time.

John had missed it even when he was with Mary, and he’d hated himself for it. Hated Sherlock, unfairly, for making him miss it.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s hand curls around his bicep. Warm and grounding, over the wool of his jumper. He fixes him with his impossible, multi-coloured gaze, and asks, “Are you happy?”  
  
Is he-

Sherlock cocks his head, and his flushed cheeks glow in the darkness. (Sherlock always looks unfairly _pretty_ when he’s drunk, not like anyone else. Or maybe it’s the entire picture; the disheveled curls, the flushed face, how loose-lipped he becomes.) They should get back downstairs, where they’re not so close, where John can _think_ past how familiar Sherlock smells- expensive shampoo, cologne, chemicals, cigarette smoke.

“Right,” Sherlock mutters, his hand falling away. “Stupid question. Let’s open another bottle, shall we?”

He turns around before John can answer; before John can say _no- wait-_ and swiftly rushes down the stairs.

John follows him dazedly, down the stairs and towards the kitchen, stands at the door and watches Sherlock uncork a new bottle of wine. He feels oddly off-kilter. As though he’s misstepped, done something wrong, and hurt Sherlock’s feelings again. He’s becoming quite the expert at that. But how can he tell Sherlock- _I’m miserable, and I don’t know why-_ when he’s clearly _trying_ so hard?

He looks at the kitchen table, clean and devoid of experiments, only covered with empty takeaway containers. 221B had always been chaotic and untidy, and there hadn’t always been much of _John_ in it. It had always been so clearly Sherlock’s space, and Sherlock had simply moved a little aside and allowed John to enter it, and John had been happy here.

He’d been _happy_ here.

“I’m only opening this because there’s none left,” Sherlock mutters darkly, staring at the expensive-looking bottle with an undue amount of contempt. “Gift from Mycroft,” he explains, rolling his eyes.

“Ah.”

(There used to be whiskey, in the flat, and beer in the fridge, when John lived here. Sherlock drank rarely, and usually to give John company.

 _ ~~Do people~~_ ~~like _me?_~~ )

_Are you happy?_

John thinks of Sherlock in this flat, alone at Christmas. Curled up in his armchair, dressing gown wrapped around his too-frail body, his hair uncut and his cheeks covered in stubble. There had been no decorations, then, in all probability. No blinking lights and no Christmas tree. There had just been Sherlock and another empty armchair.

And despite all of that, Sherlock had wanted John here. Even though John had left him alone then. Sherlock had got Rosie a _cot._

Sherlock had asked him if he was _happy,_ like it was important to him, and John couldn’t say anything.

He swallows past a hard lump in his throat. Sherlock pours them both another helping of wine. He really shouldn’t, they’ve both had too much already. But then Sherlock hands him his glass, and there are those pale fingers wrapped around the stem, and John feels faint with longing.

He takes it from him, Sherlock clinks the rim of his glass with his with a soft smile. A private kind of smile, the kind of smile that seemed to be reserved only for John. Because Sherlock never smiled at other people like that. John would have noticed. Seductive smiles, sure. Clever, _I’ve figured it out_ smiles, or _Got you right where I want you_ smiles. But not this one. This one, only John was allowed to see.

He doesn’t deserve it.

He wants it though. God, how he wants it.

“Well, merry Christmas,” he murmurs, and lifts the glass to his lips, one hip cocked against the dining table.

Sherlock looks heart-achingly lovely, John suddenly realises, all the breath leaving his body. He always looks lovely, of course. Sherlock has always been devastatingly handsome, and he’d long since learned to tamp down his body’s reactions to Sherlock’s particular brand of beauty. But there’s something about him right now, lights blinking in the kitchen, throwing his pale face into all kinds of colour.

Something hard and painful opens up in his gut. He shouldn’t think about him this way. He’s not _allowed._ Not after- not after what he’s done.  
And yet, his fingers twitch with the urge to- _hold._ Grab. Pull him closer. Fit him against the confines of his body, and _god,_ this isn’t fair of him. He shouldn’t.

Sherlock’s eyes catch his gaze over the rim of his glass, questioning. He looks a little concerned. He must be staring. Does he have any idea how gorgeous he looks, how much John wants him? How much he wants to press his mouth to a flushed cheek, the ridge of that sharp cheekbone-

The lights keep twinkling, and Sherlock. Sherlock, well. Sherlock looks like he always does. Perfect. ~~(Unattainable)~~

His head is swimming, and Sherlock is so close to him. John would just need to take one tiny step, and they’d be-

***

It happens slowly; it’s not as though he doesn’t have time to stop it if he wishes. Weave out of the way. Instead, he stands there, still, as John backs him up against the dining table and presses his mouth against his.

There’s no way he can deny what this is: it’s a kiss. Sherlock's fingers are still clasped around the stem of the wine glass, it wavers in his grip. He puts it down shakily on the table, thankful it doesn’t spill, and John is still kissing him.

This is. This is-

_Real?_

Doubtful.

Couldn’t be. Sherlock closes his eyes, lifts his hands to cradle John’s face, tilts his face upward just as John curls his hand into his shirt, pulls him down.

There had been fantasies.

So many he’d lost count. There were several scenarios he’d built up in his head, as to how this was to go. Of course, that was _before._ After a case, adrenaline running high. Over a lazy morning breakfast. On a dare. For a case.

He hadn’t quite been able to imagine what it was like to _actually_ be kissed by John, of course. The feel of his skin under his hands, the taste of him, the swipe of his tongue, the rasp of stubble. Sherlock’s chest constricts, his heart thudding so loudly against his chest he can feel it in his ears.

John’s hand is cupped over his hips, keeping him pinned against the table, and he kisses him…competently. Focused. One would think alcohol would affect his technique, but no. Sherlock wants to imprint this in his memory, somehow pause the moment and record it in his mind palace because it doesn’t seem _real,_ that he’d get this- what he’d wanted- for so long.

John groans against his mouth and shifts his hips against him, and Sherlock can feel the barest physical evidence of arousal against his thigh.

Oh. _Oh._

Sherlock feels vaguely ill. Not because he doesn’t want it- _Christ,_ does he want it-

It takes a mammoth amount of effort to place his palm against John’s soft, jumper covered chest, push him away.

John pulls back easily, his eyes are dazed and his cheeks are pink and Sherlock feels an awful hollow open up in his gut, at the realisation that _there._ It’s over. He won’t have this again.

John’s eyes suddenly regain focus, and then widen in panic. “Fuck,” he hisses, and the warmth is gone, and John is stepping away from him, and yes, Sherlock knows what happens now. The tenuous connection he’d tried so hard to rebuild will break, he’ll have ruined things, as usual, and he wants to do something, wants to smash his glass against the wall, wants to curl his fingers into John’s jumper and pull him back- _kiss me again-_

“I,” he says, quietly, ducking his head. John is still standing there, barely a few inches away from him, that must mean something, he hasn’t run away yet. “can’t do this.” Desperation tinges his voice, and Sherlock doesn’t care. He’s too inebriated to think this through anyway.  
  


“Of course,” John replies automatically. “I shouldn’t have- I’m drunk, I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to-“

“I am in love with you.”  
  


He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it. The words leave his chest in a rush of breath, in a damning, stupid, _ridiculous_ confession, but there barely was any point in hiding it anymore. It’s not as though John would come back, after this. There have been too many mistakes. It’ll be awkward and stilted between them, and John will get tired of watching his words and walking on eggshells and he’ll just…stop.

“So. Now you know,” Sherlock clears his throat, still unable to meet John’s gaze. He takes the wine glass and drains it, puts it back carefully. “I don’t expect reciprocation, in case you’re wondering. The fact of the matter is,” and he looks up, looks at John, who is still, frozen in shock, staring at him with an expression that Sherlock cannot read. “that I cannot pretend anymore.”

His head feels fuzzy, and his words have started to slur. He should stop talking. “You were never meant to know, of course. I apologise. You may delete this-“ he gestures to the space between them, “if you so wish. I imagine you won’t want to see me anymore. Understandable.”

He nods to himself. Feels his mouth pulling into a horrible grimace of a smile. “You were never meant to know,” he repeats.

John stands there. Staring. Staring. Mouth parted. Why won’t he just _leave_? Sherlock’s told him, bared his chest, thrown his heart at his face, practically, and shouldn’t John just be disgusted and leave. Why’s he still standing there, making Sherlock feel more ridiculous and pitiful with every passing second-

He’s being pushed against the dining table again, and there are hands on his face, cupping his ears, swiping into his hair.

What-

“I,” John says against his mouth, between kisses. “Am _such_ an idiot.”

“W-what? What?” Sherlock can barely get any words out. His head is spinning. John is kissing him again. Had he not heard what Sherlock had said?

“There were times I thought. I _wondered,_ but then I messed up. I made a fucking _mess,_ and you just, you just stood there and took it and I didn’t think I even deserved you, but, god, Sherlock,” John cups the back of his head, almost tenderly, and kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, underneath his ear.

Sherlock is shaking. He’s shaking, about to fall apart in John’s arms because he’s confused, and he doesn’t know what is happening, what John is saying-

“Kiss me back, you prat,” he growls against his mouth. “I love you too.”

Sherlock swallows, and then curls his arms around John’s shoulders and parts his lips against John’s tongue, lets himself be pushed up against the dining table. There’s no more science equipment there, not since Rosie (he’d had to keep Baker Street at least comparatively safe for her) so there’s no clink of glassware, just the rough creak of wood against wood, just the sound of John’s heavy breathing and his own, and an embarrassing whimper that falls from his mouth.

“I don’t- I don’t understand.”

John pulls away, his hands still on either side of Sherlock’s face.

“I’m in love with you. Didn’t you hear me?”

“But-“

“Later. God, later. I just want to kiss you now. Let me kiss you, please.”  
  


“God, yes,” Sherlock replies. And John laughs, honest and lovely and Sherlock is so terribly, desperately in love with him, how’d he managed not to say it for so long? How had he managed to keep this all-encompassing, this bursting, awful love inside of him, and not tell him?

It blurs a bit, after that. He’s only aware of John hitching him up in his arms and somehow depositing him on the dining table- which wobbles a bit under the weight. His eyes flutter closed as John mouths down his neck, leaving burning trails. Sherlock’s palms come down flat against the table and he leans back, arching under John as he cups his hands around his hips and pulls him closer across the tabletop until they’re pressed up against each other. Sherlock breathes in sharply as John rocks against him, and he wraps his legs around his waist, _yes, like that-_

He is dimly aware of John popping open the buttons on his shirt and pulling it out of his trousers, his warm hands skimming over the skin that stretches over his ribs. He shivers, eyes fluttering closed and a string of “ _yes”_ and _“please”_ falling from his mouth.

“You’re so- you’re _stunning,_ ” John tells him, as Sherlock tries to catch his earlobe in his mouth, suck, and pull. John smells lovely; like he’d imagined, or better, maybe. Sherlock licks into his mouth, chases the sourness of wine on his tongue, and _adores_ him.

“Want you,” he whispers, still not able to believe he’s actually saying it. _Want you so much, terribly, desperately, can’t really put it into words- wanted you for ages, since the day I laid eyes on you-_

“Yeah, me too,” John replies, voice rough, hands on his belt. “Can I-“

“ _Fuck,_ yes _.”_

Sherlock’s fingers clutch at his hair as John presses his lips to his neck, curling a hand around him. Fuck- that’s, _oh, god._ Sherlock gasps against his temple, fingers digging bruises into John’s biceps. He’s shaking, right on the edge. His shirt slips down his shoulder and John noses along the skin, his teeth digging into his collarbone, and that will leave bruises, won’t it, but Sherlock doesn’t care. They’ll bloom overnight and Sherlock will cherish them, will look at them and know that John has had his way with him, that John has touched him.

John’s hand tangles into his curls, pulls his head to the side, mouths at the shell of his ear. That’s lovely, that’s- _too much,_ almost, Sherlock feels like he’s bursting at the seams. His fingers claw at the back of John’s jumper, wool scratching his skin, and there- _there-_

“ _John-“_

He shudders, back arching against John and holding on to him for dear life. “ _Fuck-“_

 _“_ Gorgeous-“

It’s over far too quickly, and then he slumps forward, burying his head in John’s shoulder, feeling wrung out, hollow. John’s arm is around his back, palm running smoothly over the cotton of his shirt.

“Well,” he says, voice muffled against John’s shoulder. He should sit up properly, but he finds he has no desire to. John is right here, and his jumper still smells like the old detergent he used to use, and Sherlock wants to stay in this moment forever.

Because right now (maybe for a minute more) Sherlock has everything he could have ever wanted.

“Hey,” John’s voice is soft, and he’s attempting to pull away- _don’t-_

Sherlock reluctantly drags himself away from John’s warm embrace, not quite able to meet his eyes. His heart is still beating wildly against his chest, his trousers unzipped and both he and John have bits of semen on them. Sherlock isn’t an expert in human interaction, but he understands the social norms surrounding sexual activities when alcohol is involved.

He wants to tell John this, but part of him thinks that that would break the spell even more quickly, and Sherlock wants to extend this for as long as possible.

“Look at me?” John requests, and hooks a finger under his chin, forces him up. Something precarious inside Sherlock shifts at his soft, fond expression, and he raises both palms to push him away. He is _furious_ with himself. He hops off the table and roughly drags his trousers back up, does his belt. Of all the _stupid, ridiculous,_ things he could have done-

“Sherlock-“

“This was ill-advised,” he says, his voice surprisingly level, all things considered. “You must forgive me, I must have drunk too much. Of course, I had decided the optimal amount beforehand but it seems my calculations were a bit off-“

“Wh- hang on-“

John quickly rushes forward to stand in front of him, and Sherlock immediately steps back, looking at the sink instead as he does up his buttons with shaking fingers.

“Sherlock, if this was- I thought, you told me-“

“No need to apologise. Your inhibitions were lowered, you didn’t know what you were doing. Yes, I know you’re _not gay._ I will delete this incident, I’m sure you would prefer that. We don’t have to speak of it again.”

“Christ, you _idiot-“_ John grabs his wrist, and Sherlock has no choice but to look at him, and this is _killing him,_ can’t John see? He can’t do this again. He can’t keep pretending like this means nothing to him, and John will expect him to.

“Don’t do that.” John cups the side of his face, his palm sweeping under his hair. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _Me?_ ”

“So. I guess I should just say it. Because apparently you didn’t hear me when I was snogging you a while ago. I love you. Fuck-“ he ducks his head and laughs a bit. “Never thought I’d be able to say that.”

“You love me,” Sherlock repeats. He feels faint.

“Yeah. And it’s not because I’m drunk, which okay, I am, but I’m not going to feel differently tomorrow. Because I’ve- I’ve felt this for a long time, Sherlock, and I didn’t think I could tell you. Because. Well, because I didn’t deserve to lay this at your feet after everything I’ve done, and why would you even believe me, because I’ve hurt you-“

Sherlock places a finger against his mouth. “Stop.”

John obediently purses his lips.

“I forgive you, you know,” he says, quietly. “I forgave you a long time ago. I wanted you the moment you stepped into that lab, do you know that?”

Sherlock’s voice hitches.

 _There are things I never said-_ John’s eyes are wide with realisation as he looks at him, reflecting the glow of the Christmas lights, and Sherlock feels something warm expand in his chest, something he doesn’t have a name for.

_You love me._

“Me too,” he whispers, gently taking his hand in his, lacing their fingers together and brushing his lips against his palm. “For a …really long time.”

Sherlock curls his fingers into John’s jumper, pulls him close and _up,_ and kisses him again, because he wants to- because he _can._ “Don’t leave,” he says against his mouth. What he really means is, _stay here. Stay forever._

“I’m not going to,” John tells him, wrapping his arms around his waist. And then he smiles, that fond, oddly besotted smile that John somehow only ever directed at him, with no idea of how it affected him, all the time. He cups his face and kisses him again, softly this time. “Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock laughs against his mouth, hooking his arms around John’s shoulders.

“Merry Christmas, John.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> p>
> 
> started using a [twitter](https://twitter.com/subtextismydiv), still not very active, but feel free to say hi. 
> 
> ***


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